“Did you ever read the Bible, Douglas?” asked the preacher.

“I’ve tried to.  If you ask me to read it like it was only more or less true history, I could get away with it.  But when you tell me it’s the actual word of God and show me a picture of God in long white whiskers and a white robe, why you can’t get away with it, that’s all.  I know that nothing like that ever produced Fire Mesa or Lost Chief Range or—­or Judith.”

Mr. Fowler groaned.  “Douglas, you are blasphemous!”

“I’m not.  I’m just unhappy.  I think I was meant to be a religious guy.  I’m of New England stock and they all depended a lot on religion.  But I just can’t swallow it.”

“And you never will as long as you take the point of view you do.  You must wipe your mind clear of all you have read and thought, for God says that unless we become as little children, we cannot believe.  Religion is not a matter of knowledge and reason.  Religion is a matter of hope and faith.”

Douglas sat turning this over in his mind, his yellow hair rumpled, his clear eyes, with the sun wrinkles in the corners, fixed on the far snowy gleam of Lost Chief Range.

“Hope and faith,” he repeated softly.

There was a shout from without.  “O, you Doug!” and Charleton rode up at a gallop.  He stopped before the open door.  “I’ve been trailing you for two hours.  I got three horses penned up in a draw and I need your help.  Hello, Fowler!  What the devil are you doing out here?”

“Come in and have a bite of grub, Falkner,” exclaimed the preacher.

“Don’t care if I do!” Charleton threw a weary leg across the saddle and dismounted.  Douglas, who had finished his meal, returned to the bunk and Charleton took his place.

“Kind of funny to find you and Doug eating together,” said Charleton.

“He should have given me a swift kick,” agreed Douglas.  “Instead, he fed me.”

“That’s sound religion, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Fowler, pouring Charleton a cup of coffee.

“It’s sound hospitality, anyhow,” replied Charleton.

“Aw, any one would admit Fowler lives up to his faith,” expostulated Douglas.

Charleton glanced at the young rider in surprise.  “What’s happened to you, old trapper?”

“Nothing.  Only I wish I had the same religion he’s got.”

“So’s you could herd the sheep?” asked Charleton.

“So’s I could have peace,” retorted Douglas.

“Peace?  What does a kid like you want of peace?  Anybody that can’t find peace in Lost Chief is a fool.”

“I’m no fool!” contradicted Doug, with a growing irritation at Charleton for interrupting his talk with Fowler.  “And where is there a peaceful person in Lost Chief?”

“Douglas,” said Charleton, “when you are as old as I am you’ll realize that Lost Chief is as near heaven as man can hope to get.  A poke of salt and a gun on your saddle, a blanket tied behind, a good horse under you, the Persian poet in your pocket, all time and the ranges before you, and what more could mortal man desire?”